


Inner Circle

by romanticalgirl



Category: Historical RPF, Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blades are drawn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inner Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) for the beta and the idea I shamelessly stole from her. Originally written for the [](http://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/)**aos_challenge** "History Challenge".
> 
> Originally posted 3-31-08

There are few uniforms in the room, most of the guest list bordering on revolutionaries, standing behind the wave of Napoleon’s surge across France. They are free thinkers and poets, essayists and novelists fighting wars with words that see none of the blood and life that real wars leave spilled across the ground. He is, for all intents and purposes, out of place here and out of his element. He is no longer the creature of society he once was, though the veneer of sophistication still remains. He knows the rules and bylaws and flaunts them only as far as he knows is allowed, and thus he moves easily amongst the carefully cultivated dishevelment of the men and elegant ladies hiding behind fans.

There is gambling and drinking and dancing, all the vices of the King’s son. He avoids the dance floor much as he avoids ships these days, uncertain of the way things will move next. Instead, he sips his drink and watches the games, listening to the conversations as he weaves through the crowd. It’s a token appearance as his father is on business elsewhere, so he merely represents the name. They are not political creatures, but occasionally occasions call for their presence to be acknowledged, and it is always best to keep in the court’s good graces.

“At least the wine is excellent.”

He looks toward the sound of the voice, a slight smirk on his face at hearing his own thought spoken aloud. He is the worst of the lot – hair bedraggled and wild, his clothing the dowdiest that can pass muster, but no one seems to pay him mind. Edrington can only assume it’s the sly tone of his voice and the sharp wit clear in his bright eyes that lets him slip through the beautiful people unseen, though not ignored.

“The ladies are lovely.” Edrington offers with a slight raise of his glass.

The man’s eyes burn into Edrington with something akin to fire. He recognizes it, has seen it more than once on the battlefield, but only one other time has it burned so brightly. For all that this man’s are like liquid sapphire, they are Hornblower’s eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Had you not?” Edrington moves closer to the table where he stands, glancing around the room from the other man’s vantage point. “I do not see how, given that you have an excellent view of the room. That one there.” He gestures with his glass. “In the gold. Quite lovely.”

“Gold has its place in the bank or in my pocket. Dressing in gold makes a woman feel as if she has worth beyond what her true measure is.”

Edrington laughs at the bitter tone and sips his drink. “And what do you say of a man who adorns himself with gold?” He makes no motion to the braiding and embellishment of his uniform, letting the man draw his own conclusions of if he speaks of himself or the others in the room, pins and baubles decorating their personages.

“That would depend, Major Edrington, on if said man had earned the right to do so.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

“I imagine that is a most rare occurrence for you.” The other man sips his wine, his lips twisted in a wicked and cruel smile.

“I fear you know far more about me than a stranger should.” Edrington refuses to back away, his own lips curved with mocking, a weapon in this battle he has wandered into. “Perhaps you have me confused with my father.”

“Oh no, my Lord. I would make no such mistake.” He turns his gaze to the milling crowd again. “Notice the Prince. He stays away from you because you fight his father’s war. He stays away from me because I am a battle he cannot win. Either way, we are opponents of our host, and he is not allowed to lose. So we are exiled into the beautiful people where we will draw attention as being the odd ones in the crowd. The soldier and the clown.”

“You’re Byron.”

He turns his head and his eyes are bright with amusement. “Ah, what gave me away? The bitterness of my tongue or the flowery touch of my speech? Perhaps I shifted my weight and all attention was drawn to the fact that the revolution of dance is beyond me? That is why he invites me, you know, to his revelry. I dare not dance, so I become drunken and bitter when the tables turn against me.”

“A shame on the Prince then for not inviting men of your caliber for discourse.” Edrington raises an eyebrow and sips his wine again. “Beware the enemy that knows your downfall. You must be even more vigilant not to succumb and allow him a cheap and easy victory.”

“The only kind the dear prinny knows.” Bryon indulges in a laugh, the sound rich and thick. It draws attention to them for a brief moment before it flitters away on other brighter things. “I’ve heard your victories are more hard won.”

“One appreciates so much more what one fights for.” Edrington’s eyes scan the floor, following the twists and turns of the dancing, flashing colors and swirling skirts. “You’re here alone?”

Byron nods once, his eyes cutting to the dance floor as well. “Are you looking for scandal, my Lord?”

“A mere question, my Lord.”

“I arrived alone,” Byron allows with a smirk. “I make no promises of how I leave.”

“I believe you’ve already said, have you not? Drunken and bitter, tossed out by the Prince’s inner circle.” Edrington finishes his wine and sets his glass down on the table, his fingers brushing Byron’s as he pulls his hand away. “A pity, really. I was hoping to have someone worth talking to this evening.”

Bryon looks down at his hand and then back up at Edrington, his smile still sharp and pointed, but his eyes are no longer the chilling blue, but heated. “The end of evening is still far off, my Lord. No sense in putting a finish on it before it’s even begun.”  



End file.
